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“Whether we fall by ambition, blood or lust,
Like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.”
The Duchess of Malfi by John Webster
You’re not really sure what’s annoying you the most today. The tadpole lurking behind your eye is a constant worry and the low-level headache is both reminder of it and annoyance all on its own. The sniping of your traveling companions is way up there on the list, as is the fact that they seem to be looking at you to be a leader and make the decisions for everyone. Ugh. Could be that you’re still stuck walking everywhere, but at least you still have boots that fit.
No, all that was vexing and frustrating, but waking up to your monthly dance of womb and bleeding really took today from “can we not?” to “if one more thing goes wrong, I’m going to show you all why you should fear an angry Bard.”
At least that merchant had been willing to sell cloths and one of the odd flexible cups that the artificers were so fond of. Worth every copper. Blessings be upon them and their children and their children, even into the seventh generation. Thank Tymora we ran into them before today.
Still, you are moving a little slower than usual. You are able to keep pace with the others, but it is annoying. At home—or at any point before getting fucking abducted and en-tadpoled, you would have been able to sit in the tavern with a discreet hot water bottle tucked into the small of your back or inside your corset. You would have been able to sip some wine, eat something decadent and sweet, and maybe gotten a hot bath to deal with the cramps. But out here…
You stumble in a rut on the road and curse. Regaining your balance comes at the cost of the cramps going from “uncomfortable” to “something is attempting to escape through my skin and I should help them leave.”
Gale looks up from his book—how he reads during these hikes and doesn’t walk flat into a tree, you haven’t yet figured out—and asks, “Everything all right, Lucy? That was far less blasphemous than usual. Less creative, too.”
You groan dramatically, pressing the back of one hand to your forehead and the other to your heart, “Oh no, I do hate to be thought of as predictable and mundane! I will delve deep into my vocabulary and attempt to find the words to make the debauched blush and the unholy clutch their pearls. I beg your forgiveness!”
Predictably, Gale blushes and pointedly goes back to his book. Shadowheart shakes her head with a smile. Astarion looks like he wants to say something. The amount of white showing around his pupils is telling of something…something that you probably don’t want to talk about. Great.
Luckily, bandits take that opportunity to ambush you and whatever the vampire wants to say must be saved until later.
Later comes. Because of course it does.
After the fight, you search the bodies and strip them of usable and sellable items. You hand them out to distribute the load until you can get to camp and just dump everything into a chest or barrel or something. When you finally stand and pull your pack back onto your shoulders, you take a moment to dig your fists into the muscles of your low back, hoping for a little relief from the persistent ache. Ugh, I’m going to need to find a little privacy to change my cloths soon, too...
Astarion stands just off to the side. He found a sunbeam to enjoy while cleaning his daggers. He clears his throat and asks, voice light, “Everything all right, my treat? You seem not quite yourself today. More…delicious than usual, perhaps?”
You feel your performance face snap into place. A coy smile plays on your lips and your eyes nearly sparkle with it. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and check on the others. Gale is on a boulder on the other side of the road, book in hand. Shadowheart is off in the bushes on the other side of the road. Good enough.
You meet Astarion’s eyes and lie with ease, “Everything is perfectly fine. The tadpole is such a considerate passenger, is it not? Though I admit to being disappointed in not having the luck to be attacked by bandits who have an award-winning winery. That would have been a nice surprise.” There. Distract with a part of the truth. Keep the Bluff in place. Never show weakness to a predator.
He shakes his head with a smirk. “True, that would have been much more polite of them. But you were not harmed in the fighting and it has been a few days since our encounter, but here you are, darling Lucy, smelling of blood and something…more. Something intoxicating and, though I don’t like repeating myself, but completely delicious.”
Well. Shit. His senses are good. Like, really good. Noted. Okay, new plan. Your smile is still in place, still relaxed, still open. You say, “Oh, you know how it is.” You wave a hand, as if dismissing an insignificant concern. “In revenge for not allowing it to create yet another parasite, my womb has invited several hedgehogs to take up residence in my pelvis. They are angry at the dismal accommodations and are doing their best to make their problems, my problems. Give it a couple days and it all will be sorted.”
He raises a sculpted brow. And how does he have nice eyebrows anyway? He can’t use a mirror, so…what? Does he have an aesthetician on retainer or something? Why are the really off-limits ones always so pretty? Here I am, braiding my hair and trying to get by with river baths and daily Prestidigitations on my clothes and he looks like he stepped out of a salon. Bastard.
Astarion smirks again and you realize your mask has slipped and some of your thoughts may have been visible. Fuck. He purrs, “Well, you know I don’t have personal experience with the, ahem, issues, but I have heard gossip that a good orgasm or three does wonders for those symptoms. And I would dearly love to drink from you in such a way. Keep it in mind, won't you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just strolls up the road.
You wipe the surprise off your face and fix the “everything is fine “ bluff firmly in place. No use inviting more personal questions. The hedgehogs take the opportunity to do cartwheels and you have to bury the wince deep as you round up the others and start heading to the next ambush.
Your thoughts run in predictable circles, even as you joke, cajole, and banter. Your job is always to keep spirits up and, with this group, make decisions, which is weird and kind of worrying, but you’re good at being whatever the situation requires. Never had someone want to do that before. Never been with a vampire, though? This is a really bad idea. Like, even by bardic standards, this is a Bad Idea. But the blood’s coming out of me either way, so does it matter? No, idiot, not that. An orgasm would help with the pain and getting things over faster, yeah, but can you trust him to stop? To not bite and take more? Okay, contingency plans? Yeah, let’s make a few. Shit, you’re going to do this, aren’t you? Yeah, of course. Might even get a song out of it, so stop complaining and help me come up with what to do when it all goes wrong. You do realize you’re talking to yourself? Just wanted to be sure.
It’s almost disappointing when there isn’t another ambush before you reach your camp for the night. It would have been a nice distraction from your internal monologue.
After dinner, you gather your towel, soaps, and clean clothes and head to the nearby river. You’d checked out the area in daylight and had been glad to see a deep pool with a bank of smooth stone instead of mud.
It’s dim, but not yet full dark when you reach the edge of the water. You test the temperature and smile before shaking the drops from your fingers and pulling at the laces of your jacket.
Astarion scuffs his foot on the stone, giving you a generous half-second of warning before he speaks, “Have you given any thought to my suggestion, treat?” He stops just out of reach. Out of your reach, that is. You know exactly how fast he can close the distance.
You smile and fold your jacket, setting it on the ground. You sit and work on your boots. You glance up and say, “Of course. I had a roommate who swore by a similar process. She said she’d just go straight to the bath, rub out five or six good orgasms, and everything would just fall right out. Done in fifteen minutes instead of days.”
He chuckles, one fang glinting in the light, “Five or six in fifteen minutes? She sounds quite talented.”
You nod and put your boots to the side. You say, “Terrible roommate. Hated living with her half the time, but really damn talented.” You sigh, remembering the farewell party the two of you threw the last night in that rental. You push the memories away and stand up to undo your belt and trousers.
You glance at Astarion. He’s studying you, thinking hard about something. Still dressed, still posing in the dying light, but watching intently, running through something…
It hits you and an unpracticed, unpolished laugh escapes your lips. Astarion doesn’t recoil, but he pauses, examines you even more closely than before. Through giggles, you explain, “You do it, too! We have the same flowchart!”
He doesn’t seem to be convinced of your sanity. Not by a long shot. You get yourself under control and say, “Does he want me to be a blushing virgin, enamored lover, or jaded courtesan? Does she want a submissive novice, enthusiastic amateur, or confident dominant? What kind of lover do they need me to be? What fantasy do they not even know that they have, but I can step into and ruin them for anyone else?” You work your pants down over your hips and step out of them.
A laugh escapes Astarion then. He says, “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises, pet?! Very well, I shan’t guess. What do you want from me? Within reason, of course.”
You loosen your corset and undo the laces. You drop it on top of your pants and stretch. Predictably, his eyes trace your body, now only covered by a flimsy camisole and smalls. You have no confidence in your ability to have a stable, healthy relationship, but your ability to draw the eye, be the center of attention? Yeah, that’s never been in question. You can and have done that in your sleep.
May as well go for it. Let’s see if he runs. You toy with the hem of your camisole and say, “I want you to show me exactly how talented your mouth really is. I don’t want you to bite me to prove the point. I really want you to use your words and ask if there’s something else you want and I want you to listen if my answer is no.” You pull the camisole over your head and let it flutter to the ground. “And if any of that is not ‘within reason’, I want you to tell me now and walk away. No hard feelings.”
There. He’s clearly been taught how to use emotions and sex as weapons. Nearly as well as a Bard, not like most Rogues. There’s a story there, I’m sure of it. You wait, nearly naked and still desperately uncomfortable.
Astarion recovers from his surprise quickly. He prowls toward you, closing the distance in a few quick steps. He pulls his shirt over his head and rolls the fabric into a ball. He says, “That is…reasonable. Then let me ask you for two things, pet.” You tip your head, waiting.
He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear and trails his hand down your neck, tracing the faint marks he’d left the other night. He says, “First, I want you to not pretend. Drop the mask and let me see your actual reactions, not what you think I want to see. Second, I want you to scream when you come. Let everyone in camp know that tonight, you are mine. They can go back to having hope of winning your attention and pleasure tomorrow. Tonight, I want you to be entirely my treat.”
Of fucking course he’s seeing what I’m doing with the motley crew we’ve collected. I want them to trust me and fight for me and what better way than making them love me? You inhale sharply and say, “I will…try. I’m not…not good at not pretending. But I can be loud. Real good at that, especially if I have reason.” You grin and it feels more honest than usual. Hard to say.
In half a heartbeat, he has you flat on your back on the ground. His shirt is under your head and he’s pressing you into the ground. He lifts one of your breasts to his mouth and nuzzles it. He draws the nipple into his mouth and you let out an involuntary hiss of pain. He glances up and you say, “Not tonight. Some other time, but right now the pain outweighs the pleasure and I’d rather not.”
He doesn’t answer, but there’s a flash of triumph in his eyes at your statement that this wouldn’t be a one-off event. He slides down your body, leaving a trail of kisses and licks down to the edge of your smalls.
He tugs them off and you lift your hips to help. He trails a finger across your lips and you curse, “Ah, shit. My cup’s still in. Give me a second and I’ll deal with it.” You start to sit up and he pushes you back down with one hand in the center of your chest.
He pulls your lower lips apart with his thumbs and deliberately licks the length of your cunt. His tongue dips into your channel and he pauses, curiosity overcoming the lust and bloodlust in his eyes. He asks, “Was this what you and the cleric were buying from that merchant? I thought by her blushes and your smug smile that it was something a bit more…naughty. This seems downright practical in comparison to my imaginings.”
His fingers are cold as they dip into your cunt and work the cup free. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch. He is careful, almost gentle, and nothing spills or sloshes. “Yes,” he muses, “this is incredibly practical. I approve, pet.”
He drinks the collected blood like a shot of fine spirits. He shudders as he swallows and it is fascinating. He licks the last drips from the bottom of the cup and examines it again. He says, “Intoxicating. I knew I would be drunk on you. What is it made of?”
You shrug. “Don’t know. The artificers keep their secrets. I’m just glad they sell them at a reasonable price.” Your voice isn’t quite even. Until thirty seconds ago, you were pretty sure your whole cycle was something to be endured, but now, maybe, it’s something to be enjoyed?
Astarion carefully sets the cup off to the side. You make a note to clean it before using it again, but then his tongue spears into you and you fall back with a moan. His hands tighten on your hips and you’re gonna have some interesting bruises tomorrow, but he’s hitting that spot with his tongue and bruises don’t even rate on your priority list.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasp and bury a hand in his hair. He growls and the vibration pulls another moan from your throat. You start to cover your mouth with your free hand, but remember his second request and grab onto his shirt instead.
Gods, the sounds he’s making are obscene and you are into it. You have no idea how much of the wetness pouring from you is blood or lust and it doesn’t seem to matter to Astarion. He’s drinking from your cunt and gods it feels good. His teeth—his fangs—press into your skin without breaking it. You’re not sure how or whether he’s breathing and you couldn’t care less.
He leaves your pussy and latches his lips around your clit. Your back arches and the hand you have in his hair clenches to hold him there. He chuckles and you’d normally be annoyed at the smugness of it, but not now. Not when he’s sucking hard on that little bundle of nerves.
Your orgasm hits and you scream. There aren’t any words to it, not this time.
Astarion doesn’t wait for your shudders and spasms to pass. You haven’t even managed a real breath yet and he’s back, lapping up and drinking down everything with both enthusiasm and dedication. His tongue presses deep and he slurps and siphons up everything he can get.
You damn near break his neck when he goes back to working your clit. The suction is perfect and the threat of his teeth has you at the edge in moments. Your hand clenches in his hair and he growls in response. Your moans and whimpers escalate to wordless screams again. He holds your hips down in an iron grip and doesn’t relent this time.
You eventually come down, relaxing, and he languidly licks at your cunt. In a conversational tone, he says, “You are quite a treat, pet, but for this next one, it had better be my name I hear echoing from the landscape.”
You had agreed to take off your mask and so you let the surprise fill your voice, “Sure, yeah, I can do that. No problem.” You idly play with his hair. “You are a magnificent treat yourself, you know. Oh dear gods, that’s good—“ You trail off into incoherent cursing and bitten-off praise.
He can’t be breathing. There’s no way that he’s breathing. If you had a spare brain cell, you’d be wanting to take notes, maybe learn a few things to impress your next mark. He sucks on your cunt and then your clit. If his tongue isn’t buried in your channel, his fingers are. You get a moment to breathe when he licks his fingers clean with a groan before he comes back with a focus that is overwhelming in its intensity.
You have just enough presence of mind left to include his name in your scream of pleasure. You let go, lose yourself in the pleasure and let it overwhelm all your senses.
Astarion holds you with your back to his chest. He got you both in the pool to clean up when the last orgasm finally faded. He’d proclaimed himself entirely satisfied and you hadn’t had the energy to protest. You float in the cool water and let your mind drift. He’s keeping you from drowning. So considerate.
He trails a hand along your neck and chuckles when you neither tense up nor push him away. He asks, “Why were you surprised, pet? I told you that I wanted everyone back in camp to know who was giving you the best night of your life.” He runs his thumb along your pulse.
You sigh and answer before you can think better of it, “Because I lost my bet with myself when you did.” You know that won’t be a satisfying answer and he traces his nail along your neck in silent repetition of the question. You say, “I told you that you and I have the same process. I’d narrowed you down to two, um, boxes? Scenarios? You need control, but you also want to forget who you are. I bet myself that your wants were more important than your needs tonight. I was wrong.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Long enough for you to wake up a little and start to regret your honesty. But then he goes back to petting your shoulder. Astarion says, “That is an…interesting conclusion, my treat. I want to know more about how that twisty little mind of yours works.”
You sigh again and complain, “Yes, of course. The Bard can actually think. Tell the town crier and make a note on the calendar.”
He chuckles and the vibration goes straight through your chest. He says, “Your sarcasm is noted and appreciated. Should I return that favor, pet? Tell you what I saw in you before our tryst?”
“No, thank you. Nor what you see now, unless it’s a horde of ravenous beasts bent on our destruction. And even then, I might ask if they can wait until tomorrow.” You stretch your fingers, but don’t have the energy to pull away. You yawn instead and close your eyes again.
Astarion hums quietly. You don’t recognize the song. After a minute, he asks, “Feeling better, my treat?”
You’re nearly purring. This is all a lie, but I choose to believe it. Tomorrow, he’ll go back to wanting to rip out my throat and I’ll be back to playing everyone and tricking them into being a team. But right now? You finally remember to answer the question and say, “Much, thank you. The hedgehogs have left, anyway.” You lapse back into contented silence.
Another full minute goes by and he says, “If you fall asleep here, pet, I will be bringing you back to my tent, not your bedroll.”
You murmur, “Is that meant to be a threat? Or a reward?”
Astarion’s voice is all surprise, “You—“
You crane your neck and open one eye to look at him. You ask, “You gonna finish that sentence?” It strikes you as unbelievably funny that this is what gets him. Not your stripping, not the screaming, not any of the other things you’ve done and said over the last few days just to get a reaction. The giggles overtake you and you give in to them.
He sighs heavily and stands up, hauling you out of the water with supernatural strength. He places you on your towel and wraps it around you, pinning your arms to your sides. He piles your clothes on top of you and somehow gets his pants back on in the space between blinks. You’re still giggling when he scoops you up and stomps silently back to camp.
Astarion mutters, “I should parade you through camp like this and leave you naked by the fire.”
You yawn through your quiet laughter and say, “But then Gale will say something stupid and I’ll have to stab him and I don't have the energy. Some other time, maybe.”
His murmur turns from annoyed to interested. He asks, “What will it take for you to stab the Wizard? Not that I have any intention of goading him into doing whatever it is that would put him in your sights!” He’s bringing you back to camp the long way, the way that will let him step out of the trees and almost directly into his tent.
You smile and shrug as best as you can, “Depends on the day and how annoying everything else is. Or how bored I am. Either way.”
The time between when he steps from the trees and is closing his tent flaps is maybe a heartbeat. He lays you down in the pile of pillows that he calls a bed. You wiggle into them and sigh, “Thank you, Astarion. I really do feel much better. Much less stabby. I might actually sleep well tonight.”
Something that could be a kiss ghosts across the top of your head. Astarion says, “It was my pleasure. Go to sleep, my treat.”
You’re drifting and maybe it’s a dream that has him holding you without driving his fangs into your neck. Maybe it’s your imagination that has you feeling protected and cherished. Probably.